Long Delayed
by PollyVictorian
Summary: Scott had always believed Murdoch wanted nothing to do with his son. Now he has discovered that Murdoch believed Scott wanted nothing to do with his father. Harlan Garrett's scheming had been deeper than either of them knew.


The Christmas card had been made by a child, clearly. The picture of a sprig of holly was nicely drawn, but inexpert, and the handwriting was unmistakeably that of a child. The greeting was simple: "To Scott. Happy Christmas. From Teresa."

It had taken ten years to reach him.

* * *

"Parcel for you, Scott. From Boston." Jelly's voice held disapproval. Ever since Harlan Garrett's visit to Lancer, Jelly was suspicious of anything to do with Boston.

"Thanks, Jelly," said Scott. He grinned at the wrangler's dark expression. "And don't worry. It's only some things I sent for myself."

They were in the Lancer kitchen. Scott, Murdoch and Johnny were seated around the big kitchen table, discussing plans for wintering the stock. Teresa and Maria were picking over piles of dried fruit for the Christmas cake, Johnny getting a clip over the ear from Maria when he stole a handful of raisins. Jelly had just got back from town and was unloading the wagon.

"Sit down, Jelly," Teresa said, pouring him a cup of coffee. "I think there are some cookies left." The plate had been piled high with spice cookies when she put it on the table, but held considerably fewer now.

Scott picked up the parcel. He'd written to William Blakeney, his grandfather's private secretary, a few weeks before and asked him to send some personal items out to California. When he'd left Boston to come to Lancer, he'd thought it would just be for a visit; a few weeks, a month or two perhaps, time enough to get to know the father who had finally sent for him after twenty-four years of silence. He'd only brought with him what he needed for the expected few weeks – most of his personal belongings had been left in Boston.

As it turned out, his father had needed his sons with him and – in his own words, not wanting any favours from either of them – had offered them equal shares in the ranch. Lancer was Scott's home now; the visit had turned into a new life. He had intended to visit Boston again, of course. In fact, at first he had assumed he would go back regularly, probably at least once a year, and he had thought he would be able to bring out his things himself. Not clothes – he still grinned to himself when he recalled the strange looks his Boston wardrobe had got on his first day at Lancer. The second day, Teresa had taken him to Don Valdomero's fine establishment in Morro Coyo and got him kitted out with more appropriate clothing. His Boston 'duds' had been put away, brought out only for the occasional visit to Sacramento or San Francisco.

But there were other things he wanted to have with him here, in what was now his home, and he'd intended to bring them out to California. He'd discovered, though, that taking a month off from running a cattle ranch isn't something easily done. The ranch partnership was no sinecure; there was no sitting back playing the boss's son here. One time after another, the visit to Boston had been postponed. Finally, a couple of months ago, his grandfather had come to California instead. And had tried everything he could to get Scott to return to Boston permanently. Everything. Manipulating, scheming and, finally, blackmail. Thankfully, Johnny and Murdoch had got to the bottom of Harlan Garrett's schemes and Scott had not had to leave the family and home he had come to love. He had forgiven his grandfather, but the disillusionment had gone deep. It would be a long time, he knew, before he would go back to his grandfather's home.

So he had written to Blakeney, asking him to pack up some of the things he'd left behind and send them out to him at Lancer. And this was the parcel Jelly had brought in. Scott was about to take it up to his room to unpack later but he suddenly realised how securely it was packaged up. There must be a couple of miles of string around this, he thought, all secured with elaborate knots. He had a sudden vision of Mrs Woodbridge, his grandfather's incredibly efficient housekeeper, making sure it was packaged firmly enough to survive transport to California. It had her hallmark of thoroughness about it. He would need a good, strong kitchen knife to get it open. He went to a drawer, pulled out a knife and set to work.

He worked the package free of the string then removed several layers of strong brown paper, well glued down, and got to the thick linen cloth wrapped around the contents. This must have taken Mrs Woodbridge a whole evening, he thought. He helped himself to another cookie then lifted the cloth away. Yes, it looked like Blakeney had put everything in; there was the watch cover his godmother had made for him the year before she died, the silver fountain pen, his Bible, a bundle of photographs, a few other items that were important for one reason or another. At the bottom of the package was an envelope, addressed simply to 'Mr S. Lancer' in a precise handwriting that he recognised as Blakeney's. Odd, it seemed to be very thick. It was not surprising that Blakeney had enclosed a note but what on earth – he stopped speculating and opened the envelope. It contained five letters, unopened, and a sheet of notepaper. The note was from Blakeney:

'Dear Mr Lancer,

I hope this letter finds you well. The items you requested are in the accompanying package and I hope that you find everything in order and that all arrives safely and without damage.

I find that I must extend to you an apology. Enclosed are several letters which have recently come to light. You will see from the dates that they were received some ten years ago, at the time when Mr Garrett was travelling in Europe and you yourself were in boarding school. Normally, as you know, while you were a boy any letters which arrived for you I gave to your grandfather for his inspection, prior to his passing them on to you. In accordance with his instruction, during his absence any letters for you were to be held until his return. By some mischance, several letters were mislaid, including one which you yourself wrote to your friends in California and which your form master, again in accordance with your grandfather's instructions, forwarded to me to be held along with your other correspondence. I hesitate to appear to be laying blame, but at that time I had an assistant who shortly after was dismissed for incompetency and I believe he may have been responsible for the error.

The letters were found several days ago when a desk in the West Wing was being cleaned and polished after a long period of disuse and I have taken the opportunity of enclosing them. Once again, please accept my most sincere apologies.

Mrs Woodbridge desires me to send you her most respectful regards, to which I add my own. I remain

Yours sincerely,

Wm. Blakeney.'

Scott looked at the letters. Four were addressed to Master Scott Lancer, at his grandfather's house in Boston. The fifth was addressed to Mr Murdoch Lancer, Lancer Ranch, near Morro Coyo, California. He recognized it – he had written it to his father when he was fifteen and in boarding school. All the other boys were always talking about their fathers and he had felt envious, and resentful that he knew nothing of his own. So, although he had never had any reply to the one previous letter he had sent to his father, he wrote again. Pupils' letters had to be given to the form master for inspection and mailing but there was no reason for a letter to a boy's father to be held back. Or so he had thought. When, as he believed, he got no reply to this second letter, he had given up, resigned himself to the knowledge that his father wanted nothing to do with him.

But Murdoch had never gotten the letter. Would he have answered if he had? Even now, Scott didn't know. Perhaps it was best not to wonder. Better to just let the past slide away.

These other letters were a mystery, though. Master Scott Lancer? He had been Scott Garrett then, to everyone. He had never used the name Lancer until he enlisted in the army. He picked up one letter and started to open it. As he did, it suddenly struck him that there was one person who would have written to Scott Lancer back then…

He opened the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper. It was a Christmas card. To Scott. From Teresa. He looked at it for a few seconds, the import sinking in. There were two more sheets of paper in the envelope. His hand shook a little as he drew them out. One was a short note, Christmas wishes from Paul O'Brien. The other was a letter from Murdoch Lancer.

Scott glanced over to where his father sat, talking with Johnny and Jelly. Murdoch had written to him – why had he never mentioned it? Why had he let Scott believe that he had never bothered about his elder son all those years? Scott's eyes dropped to the letter and he began to read.

He was oblivious to the cheerful activity around him as he read through the letter. The extraordinary thing about it was that it was so ordinary. It talked about the things that were happening on the ranch: plans for wintering the animals, the Tule fogs they'd had the last few mornings, Maria starting the Christmas baking, with little Teresa helping her. Just a typical December on Lancer, so like what was going on right now. This was not a first contact with a long-lost son. He picked up the other letters and quickly opened them. He checked the dates, looking for the first one. They covered a period of four months, the earliest one being from September. He scanned it quickly, looking for the reason why his father had started writing to him.

He didn't find it. This was just another chatty letter. Again, it was simply telling him about the things happening on the ranch and to the people there. The striking thing was that his father mentioned places, people, animals as if Scott knew about them, knew who they were.

'We've put Sparky out to pasture. Cipriano was right, the old fellow is getting past being ridden. I've given Teresa a little brown mare. She's thrilled at having her first proper horse but she goes down to see Sparky every day, with an apple or a carrot.'

Sparky must have been a pony that Teresa used to ride, Scott guessed. But Murdoch was writing as if his son would know all about Sparky and what Cipriano had said. Would know who Cipriano was. And Teresa. This wasn't a first letter – this was part of an ongoing correspondence.

A churning in the stomach, a cold band of iron around the heart – all the clichés of the popular novels suddenly had a meaning. Because if Scott never received his father's letters, it meant that they had been kept from him by his grandfather. There was no other explanation, plain and simple, and it was evidenced by what Blakeney had said in his note. And Scott's letters to Murdoch? Well, he knew what had happened to the second one. What about that first letter? His grandfather had mailed it for him. Except now, he had to ask – he couldn't help but ask – had his grandfather mailed it? Or had it ended up in the fire in his grandfather's study?

He gathered up the letters, trying to steady his thoughts. He saw again the note from Paul O'Brien that had been in the first envelope he'd opened. It was only a few lines that O'Brien had written, wishing Scott a happy Christmas and New Year from himself and his daughter, but it suddenly drove home to Scott the enormity of what he'd lost. He should have known Paul O'Brien, his father's segundo and best friend for so many years. Even if it had only been through a visit, or even just the letters, he should have known Lancer; should have known he had a brother somewhere; above all, should have known his father.

His family were looking at him in concern, he realised, but he had to get away, be by himself to handle the overwhelming anger brimming up inside him. He strode out of the kitchen and across the terrace, out to where some trees would screen him from the house.

"Something bad in those letters," said Johnny. "I better go after him."

"No, Johnny, leave him alone for a while," said Murdoch. "Whatever it is, he may need a little time to deal with it. You and Jelly get that feed stored. I've got some bookwork to do. We'll leave the ladies in peace to get on with their baking," he smiled at Teresa and Maria. "Scott will be back when he's ready." He left the kitchen and Johnny and Jelly went out to start unloading the feed from the wagon. Johnny wasn't happy about Scott, but maybe Murdoch was right. No sense pushing him, he'd only clam up. Johnny knew his brother.

Teresa went on with her work but her thoughts weren't on the Christmas cake. Murdoch's matter-of-fact words hadn't fooled her, she knew he was worried about Scott. So was she. It would have taken something pretty bad to make him go out like that, without a word to any of them. Something that made him feel he couldn't trust himself to speak.

Murdoch was right, of course, it wouldn't be right to intrude if the trouble was something that Scott didn't want to share. But she knew, too, how Scott would all too often keep his worries and his hurt to himself, instead of asking for help. It went back to his army days, she supposed. "A soldier can't be always complaining," he'd said to her once. She'd tread gently, but she had the feeling she should let Scott know that his family were there if he needed them.

Maria watched as Teresa went out of the kitchen, and nodded approvingly. Her niña was the one to help there. A sisterly caring might reach where nothing else would.

* * *

Scott was looking out towards some cattle grazing on the pasture, but not as if he was seeing them. Teresa approached him quietly, ready to slip away again if the time wasn't right for him yet.

Scott turned as she came up to him.

"Murdoch and Johnny are worried," she said. "Was there some bad news in those letters?"

"No, not in the letters," Scott answered her. "It's just that… they were delayed."

"Oh. Were they long delayed?" she asked. "Were they important?"

"Yes," he said, "They were vitally important. And they were delayed ten years." He managed a twisted smile. "One of them contained a Christmas card from you."

Teresa blushed a little. "Oh, those cards I made you every year! I'm sure that wasn't the 'vitally important' one. Although I suppose that means you missed your father's Christmas letter that year. That's a pity, but that's not the trouble, is it?"

Teresa's words were confirming Scott's fears. Despite the evidence, he'd been still clinging to the hope that these had been the only letters and it was just bad luck that they hadn't reached him. That slight chance was rapidly disappearing.

"There were four letters, all from Murdoch," he told her. "They read like there'd been others before. Were there? You said you made cards for me every Christmas. I never got any," he paused, his voice choking. Teresa stared at him for a moment, his words sinking in. Then she nodded.

"Murdoch wrote to you regularly; every month or so. Sometimes my father would put in a note as well. And I always made a card for your birthday and Christmas. Murdoch never got an answer from you but, well, he kept writing. I think it was only after you went into the army that he stopped."

Scott looked out over the fields. Fields that should have been a familiar sight since his childhood.

"I never got the letters," he told her. "Any of them. I never received one letter or heard one word from my father all the years I was growing up. I thought he wanted nothing to do with me – I thought he'd forgotten I existed. And all that time…" He whirled around to her again. "He wanted me back, didn't he?"

"Of course he wanted you back." Teresa was appalled. Through all those years, Scott had thought his father didn't want him?

"And my grandfather was willing to do anything to keep him from getting me."

Teresa had never before heard such bitterness as she heard in his voice then. It almost frightened her in its intensity. She moved forward and put her hand gently on his arm. She thought of things she could say, trite phrases like 'It was only because he loved you so much' but she knew words like that wouldn't be right, would only make a mockery of Scott's pain.

"You have your father now." It was all she found to say but she knew it was what Scott had to cling to.

He looked at her, this sweet girl with such concern for him written on her face. She should have been a childhood friend. He should have known her all her life – they should have grown up together. Years of friendship lost. And what of her father? Paul O'Brien should have been part of his life, too, but that was gone beyond recall. His father's most trusted friend was someone he would never know. All lost, because of his grandfather's selfish, uncaring venom.

Scott had been able to find some excuse for Harlan Garrett's attempt at blackmail: his grandfather had been lonely, it had been a gesture of desperation, it had been just one evil act set against a lifetime of care. But this was different. This had been a cold, calculating deceit, carried on over years – those very years when he thought his grandfather was giving him such loving care. This he could not forgive.

And then he realised something else.

"Teresa, you assumed I had gotten those letters. I suppose Murdoch thinks the same thing?" She nodded.

"He would, yes," she said.

"He thinks I got his letters but never answered them, didn't want to answer them."

Scott was shaken. All that time when he had thought his father wanted nothing to do with him, had Murdoch believed the same thing about his son? The thought was almost too appalling to grasp.

"But he's never said anything about it." Scott was still trying to understand.

"Of course he wouldn't, Scott," Teresa answered him. "You know Murdoch. He wouldn't want to sound like he was blaming you."

No, he wouldn't, thought Scott. Murdoch Lancer would never shift either blame or responsibility onto anyone else. He recalled his father's words, that first day: "Maybe that's my fault and maybe it isn't." That was the closest he had ever come to accusing anyone else of being responsible for his separation from his son.

But it seemed that little, if any, of the blame for those years of separation could be laid at Murdoch Lancer's door. Scott knew now where the blame lay and it was time for his father to know, too.

* * *

Scott found Murdoch at his desk in the Great Room.

"Father, is it true you wrote to me while I was growing up? Wrote to me regularly? Teresa has just told me."

Murdoch looked startled. "Yes, of course I wrote to you, Scott," he said, "Every month."

He tried to smile but Scott's words had set his mind awhirl. Scott didn't know he'd written? Did that mean his son's silence all those years wasn't because he hadn't wanted any communication with his father but simply because he didn't receive any letters, didn't know Murdoch had tried to keep in touch with him?

At the same time Murdoch felt a cold fear at his heart, fear for Scott. If Scott didn't know he'd written, that could only mean that Harlan had made sure he never got the letters – and that meant more pain and disillusionment for Scott. The grandfather he had loved and trusted had betrayed him even more than he had realised. And Scott knew it, Murdoch could tell even before Scott's next words.

"I never got any of those letters, Murdoch. My grandfather held them back. You thought I got them, I suppose?" Murdoch nodded. Scott's next words startled him again. "And you didn't get my letters to you."

"No, Scott, I didn't."

So there had been letters after all. It had been a pain at his heart for so long, his son's rejection of him. At the time of Harlan's visit Scott had said something that had made him think it was because he had never gone to Boston to claim his son and bring him to Lancer – that letters had not been enough. Murdoch had accepted that. He hadn't told Scott of the threats Harlan Garrett had made, that had kept him away from his son. It would have been too much like descending to Harlan's level.

But it seemed they had both been cheated; made strangers to each other by Harlan's scheming. The old fury at Harlan Garrett welled up inside him but he resolutely pushed it down. He knew it could do no good now. Murdoch looked at Scott and saw that his son was feeling that same anger – no, far worse. He had to stop that if he could, stop his son from going down the path of anger and hate that could only seep more poison into his life. He drew a deep breath and spoke as steadily as he could.

"It doesn't matter now, Scott," he said.

"It does matter, Murdoch, and you know it," Scott declared furiously. "We could have been father and son, even if I'd stayed in Boston. We'd have known each other, even if it was only through letters, instead of being total strangers when we came face to face. I wouldn't have had to ask what to call you. You would have been Father, someone special, not Murdoch, someone who with a bit of luck might be a friend." The bitterness Scott had kept in check for so long was coming out in his voice and his words.

"You called me 'Father' a moment ago," Murdoch told him quietly. He suspected that Scott hadn't even realised it. There was a moment of silence.

"It shouldn't have taken twenty-five years," his son said.

"Scott, who knows what would have happened," said Murdoch. "There are fathers and sons who grow apart with the years, or take each other for granted, or simply don't like each other as men. I'm proud of the fact that you consider me a friend as well a father. That's something I've achieved, not just a duty I'm owed. We have what we have and, you know," he smiled gently, "I think what we have is very good."

Scott battled to bring himself under control.

"Alright, Murdoch, I know you're right, I know it's what we have now that counts, and maybe even some good has come out of the bad. But it doesn't change the fact that we lost so much and it was because of my grandfather's deceit."

Murdoch looked thoughtful. "Tell me something, Scott. I realise your grandfather made sure you never got the letters I sent to Boston, but I wrote one to you while you were in the army. I sent it care of your regiment, in 1863, in August. It was just after Vicksburg and I knew the 83rd had been in the siege. Did you ever get that letter?"

That had been the worst, getting no reply to that last letter. Murdoch had always had it in the back of his mind that Harlan might have kept Scott from answering the earlier letters, but that one had been sent when Scott was a man grown and away from his grandfather's house. He waited now to hear what Scott would say. Waited with his breath held.

Scott was shaking his head. "No. That was about the time I transferred to the cavalry. It probably reached the 83rd after I'd left the unit. It might have got lost, or it might never have been sent on."

"But you'd have answered it if you'd got it?"

"Of course I would!" Scott exclaimed.

Murdoch smiled. "That's all I need to know."

As he listened to his father's words, Scott's anger slowly eased. He was amazed, and admiring of the man in front of him. All those years not only of separation, but of wrongly believing that his first-born son wanted nothing to do with him, and Murdoch had forgiven. Just the knowledge that his son would have written, it seemed, was now enough. He wondered if he, himself, could ever do as well as Murdoch. Forgiving his grandfather was impossible, surely. It was not only the actions but the betrayal of trust – it was too much to simply put in the past.

Yet perhaps the very fact that Murdoch could forgive those past wrongs meant that he, Scott, could do the same. They were father and son, after all. And wouldn't it be wrong for a son to carry a grievance that his father had let go?

Yes, he determined, he would forgive. He could and he would, because he knew now that Murdoch Lancer had been a father to him all those years and that was more important than anything else. It was, and had to be, all that mattered. He didn't fool himself, it would take time, he knew, and the regret for the lost years would always be there, but the anger and the hate – he would let them go. He would live up to the example of this man he was so proud to call his father.

Then he thought of something. "Wait a minute," he said to Murdoch, and went out to the kitchen to where the parcel still lay. He picked up the fifth letter and brought it back into the Great Room.

"A few of your letters got mislaid while my grandfather was in Europe one year," he explained. "Grandfather's secretary found them and enclosed them in that parcel. There were four of them, plus this letter. I wrote this one, when I was in boarding school. It's not a fair exchange," he smiled, "I get four and you get one, but, well, we have what we have." His eyes met his father's as he laid the letter on the desk in front of Murdoch. Then he went out. He had letters to read, and so did his father.

* * *

Scott put the Christmas card on the shelf above the fireplace.

"Who's that one from, Scott?" Johnny asked. "Looks like it was drawn by a kid."

Scott smiled. "It's from a childhood friend," he said.


End file.
